Darkest Hour (31 page)

Peploe followed Captain Barclay and Lieutenant
Bourne-Arton unsteadily through some impressively ornate iron gates to the side
of the chateau, then along a gravel pathway to the main entrance of the
white-stone building. The place seemed a hive of activity. Doors opened and
closed, staff officers hurrying to and fro with an air of grave intent. Phones
rang, typewriters clacked, orders were barked. The three men were told to wait
in the hall and did so in silence, watching the comings and goings until, after
about a quarter of an hour, Captain Barclay stood up and began to pace.

'Now look here,' he said eventually, accosting a pale
subaltern, 'how much longer are we going to have to wait? We've got an injured
pilot who needs proper medical care and we need to know where we can find the rest
of our battalion. Damn it, surely someone here can point us in the right
direction.'

'What unit are you, sir?' asked the subaltern.

Barclay sighed. 'D Company, First Battalion, King's
Own Yorkshire Rangers.'

'All right,' said the subaltern. 'I'll send an MO.'

'And what about the rest of First Battalion?' said
Barclay, his mounting frustration showing in his tone.

'Just a moment, sir,' said the subaltern, and
disappeared.

'For God's sake,' muttered Barclay.

It was a further twenty minutes before the medical
officer arrived, apologizing for keeping them waiting.

'Take the MO to Lyell, will you, Lieutenant?' said
Barclay, to Bourne-Arton.

'Right away, sir.' Bourne-Arton led the doctor outside
to the trucks.

'Let's hope that's the last we've seen of him,' muttered
Barclay.

'Your brother-in-law, you mean, sir?' said Peploe.

'Yes. Bloody pain in the arse. Wish I'd left him in
that damned field. The CSM was right.'

'You couldn't have left him there, sir.'

Barclay tapped a foot on the stone floor. 'Hm. Did it
for my sister, not for him. Put men's lives at risk. Held everything up.' He
began to knead his hands together. 'I put my family before the needs of the men
and what thanks did I get? None.'

'I think you're being a bit hard on yourself, sir,'
said Peploe. 'After all, we've made it here in one piece.'

Barclay said nothing, instead pacing the hall, his
boots clicking on the bare stone floor. Peploe wished he would stop. His head
throbbed and pulses of pain coursed down his neck. What he needed was quiet,
not the frenetic pacings of his OC.

At the point when he thought he could bear it no
longer, a tall, slim man in his late thirties, with an immaculately groomed
appearance, trotted down the main staircase and said, 'Sorry to keep you,
gentlemen.' He held out a hand to Barclay. 'Lieutenant-Colonel Rainsby. Do
follow me.'

He led them back up the stairs, along a short corridor
and into a room with a large window. Peploe peered out and saw their German
trucks parked beneath the horse- chestnuts on the far side of the road. The men
were chatting and smoking, others making the most of the pause to snatch some
sleep. Beyond, the avenue of trees continued, sloping down through undulating
lush pasture.

Barclay cleared his throat and Peploe turned to the
half-colonel standing in front of them behind a makeshift desk.

Waving them towards two mismatching chairs, Rainsby
offered cigarettes, then sat down behind his desk. 'Sorry to keep you.' He
smiled genially. 'As you can see, it's pretty busy here - Jerry's probing not
far to the south and it may be that we have to ship out at any moment.'

'Surely not, sir,' said Barclay, startled.

Rainsby steepled his fingers. 'Hopefully not. One of
the problems is that the picture is so confused. But Cambrai has fallen and the
enemy has now punched a wedge of about twenty-five miles between us here in the
north and the French forces to the south.'

'Surely some kind of pincer movement is what's
needed,' put in Peploe. 'A joint counter-attack from north and south.'

Rainsby smiled. 'Exactly, and that's precisely what
we're hoping to do. This place is still home to GHQ, but also Frankforce,
created by the C-in-C as of this morning under Major-General Franklyn - the
best part of two divisions, plus tanks from First RTR and various other units.
I'm GS03 Operations - planning tomorrow's little show.' He paused. 'We've been
admiring your haul of German trucks.'

'We're trying to find the rest of our battalion, sir,'
said

Barclay. 'We lost them as we pulled back from the
Brussels-Charleroi canal. We had a bit of a ding-dong with the enemy, which
held up our retreat rather. By the time we'd forced them back, the rest of the
battalion had already moved out.'

Lieutenant Peploe smiled to himself.

Rainsby raised a hand -
say no more
- and unfolded a map. 'Easily done,' he said, 'and you're hardly the only ones
to have become separated from their units.' He put down the map and picked up
another sheet of paper. 'Yorkshire Rangers, Yorkshire Rangers,' he mumbled,
running his hand down the page. 'Yes, here we are. Thirteenth Brigade have been
ordered to the Scarpe. Not so very far from here, actually. They're on their
way there now. They're to hold the line at Vitry-en-Artois.'

'That's excellent news, sir, thank you,' said Barclay,
pushing back his chair.

Rainsby chuckled. 'Not so fast, Barclay. I'm afraid
you're not going to rejoin them just yet.'

'Why ever not, sir?'

'Because tomorrow we'll be launching a counter-attack
west and south of Arras. Enemy panzers are now pressing to the south. Our task
is to push them back. Fifth Div are going to stay put on the Scarpe, but the
main attack will come from Fiftieth Div, plus tanks of First RTR.'

'Then surely we should head to Vitry-on-whatever-it-
was, sir.'

'The thing is, Barclay, the job on the Scarpe is
mostly static, but you chaps have turned up with your four very decent trucks.
We could, of course, simply take them from you, but I rather think it would be
better to attach you to the 151st Brigade for this operation. We want our
infantry to be able to keep up with the tanks, you see.'

'And what infantry will there be, sir?'

'Two attacking battalions - Eighth and Sixth DLL'

'The Durham Light Infantry, sir?' Barclay looked
appalled.

'Yes. A damn good regiment.' Rainsby smiled. 'Look,
it's the most marvellous opportunity for you to show us what you chaps can do.
A successful counter-attack like this will do wonders for the name of the
regiment. And for you, too, Captain.'

Peploe smiled to himself again. Rainsby had certainly
got the measure of Barclay.

'Very well, sir,' said Barclay, his back stiffening.
'If those are our orders, then of course we'll carry them out to the best of
our abilities.'

'Good man,' said Rainsby, rising from his seat. 'Here
are your instructions.' He handed over a sheet of paper. 'Make your way to Vimy
- a smallish village a few miles north-east of here. General Franklyn's setting
up his command post there. In fact, I'll be heading there myself shortly. You
should ask for the brigade-major. Fellow called Clive. Any questions?'

'We'll rejoin the battalion after this battle?'

'Absolutely.'

Rainsby took them back to the hall, shook their hands
and wished them luck, then skipped up the stairs again.

So,
thought Peploe, as they headed to the waiting men and
trucks,
we go into action tomorrow.
So far he
had not felt particularly frightened, but that was because the two small pieces
of action he had taken part in had happened suddenly; he hadn't had time to
think about what was happening. Now, however, there was most of the afternoon
and the night to wait - and this time it would be a proper attack, not a light
skirmish or brief exchange of fire. His stomach churned and his throat felt
tight.

Tanner and Sykes were asleep when Peploe stepped up
into the cab of the Opel, but both men woke instantly.

'How's the head, sir?' asked Sykes.

'Not too bad, thank you, Corporal.' He cleared his
throat. 'We've been temporarily assigned to join the Eighth DLL'

Tanner raised an eyebrow.

Peploe found himself sighing heavily. 'We're going to
be part of a major counter-attack tomorrow.'

Tanner nodded. 'Good. About time. Perhaps I'll be able
to get my hands on another Jerry sub-machine-gun.' He grinned at Sykes.

A few minutes later they rumbled off. Peploe stared
out at the rolling countryside, the fields green with young corn. Where was his
uncle buried? Somewhere near Arras - the scene of such bitter fighting more
than twenty years before. They drove past a cemetery, not British but French,
row upon row of white crosses stretching away from the road. Peploe swallowed,
then glanced at Tanner, who was smoking a cigarette and gazing at the thousands
of graves too. What he was thinking, Peploe couldn't tell. Tanner was a
difficult man to read. Was he scared? He had barely batted an eyelid at the
news that they would soon be going into battle. If anything, he seemed to
relish the chance - Sykes too.
Extraordinary.
He
was glad that the sergeant would be alongside him tomorrow. Damned glad.

At four twenty p.m. on 20 May, General Lord Gort fixed
his pale eyes on General Billotte's liaison officer from Army Group 1 in Lens,
Capitaine Melchior de Vogue. Outside, the afternoon had grown grey, a gathering
blanket of cloud now blocking out the sun and all but a few faint patches of
summery blue so that, despite the tall windows, the room was quite dark. A cool
breeze ruffled some of the papers on Gort's desk.

'Capitaine,' said Gort, 'thank you for coming.' He
picked up a sheet of paper and waved it at de Vogue. 'Do you know what this
is?'

'No, my lord,' replied de Vogue.

'It's a sitrep informing me that a handful of German
advance tanks and infantry have taken Cambrai without a fight. Tell me it's not
true.'

De Vogue shifted his feet uneasily. 'I am afraid it
is, my lord.'

Gort sighed. 'But how can that be? All the garrison
had to do was stand firm and they would have driven off the enemy.'

'It was the dust, my lord.'

'Dust?' Gort spluttered.

'Er, yes, my lord,' said de Vogue. 'The enemy advanced
on a broad front causing a huge cloud of dust. The garrison there thought the
attackers were part of a far larger force than was reality.'

Gort could hardly believe what he had heard. 'And is
the French Army now refusing to fight?' he asked.

'No, my lord, of course not.'

'Capitaine de Vogue,' said Gort, 'when I tell British
soldiers to attack, they attack. So why haven't French forces counter-attacked
and retaken Cambrai?'

De Vogue cleared his throat, then said quietly, 'There
has been no order to counter-attack.'

'Good God, man, why the devil not?' said Gort, bringing
his hand down hard on the table. His voice rose. 'In the last war, the French
Army was proud and fearless.

Any one of the commanders would have taken it upon
themselves to throw out a weak advance guard like the one that took Cambrai
yesterday. When is the French Army of old going to stand up and fight? When?
Because if they don't start doing so, Capitaine, the Germans will get to
Abbeville and Calais and then I will have no choice but to fall back on Dunkirk
and sail my men back to England. I'm not prepared to lose my forces trying to
defend a country that's already given up. Do I make myself clear?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Now, go back to General Billotte and tell him we need
Blanchard's First Army to attack simultaneously tomorrow. Much as it pains me
to say this, I think it's probably our last chance.'

When de Vogue had gone, he picked up his telephone and
had himself connected to Captain Reid, his liaison officer at Blanchard's First
Army Headquarters. He drummed his fingers impatiently.

'Hello, sir,' said a voice eventually, the line
crackling with static.

'Reid?' said Gort. 'I want you to take down a
message.'

'Of course, sir.'

'Ready? It runs as follows: "If this attack -
i.e. the counter-attack tomorrow - is unsuccessful, we cannot remain longer in
a position with our flank turned and German penetration proceeding towards the
coast. Stop." Have you got that?'

'Yes, sir,' said Reid.

'Good. Relay it to Blanchard, and make sure that
Billotte and Weygand see it too.'

'Yes, sir.'

Gort hung up the receiver and breathed out heavily.

Ironside
and Pownall had gone to stiffen the French commanders' resolve in person; he
had spoken more than plainly to de Vogue; now he had sent a further message
that he hoped would jolt them into action. He could do no more. But if the
French failed them tomorrow, he would have to start preparing the evacuation.
He had told de Vogue it was their last chance - and that had been nothing less
than the truth.